Of Sunny Days and Cuddly Curmudgeons
by SpockLikesCats
Summary: McCoy and Chapel get away from Starfleet Academy Medical's Emergency Room for much-needed R&R. But first, there are some things they need to sort out.


**Of Sunny Days and Cuddly Curmudgeons**

_by SpockLovesCats_

_**A Star Trek:AU McCoy/Chapel story. McCoy is, of course, Karrrrlll! Urban, and I envision Christina Hendricks **_**[**_**who portrayed uber-secretary "Joan H." in **_**Mad Men**_** and "Mrs. Reynolds" in **_**Firefly] **_**as**__**Christine Chapel**__**.**__ . __**Author assertions**__: I make no money from this; it's for love alone; no copyright infringement is intended, and to the best of my conscious knowledge this is all my own creation, except for the Star Trek universe and characters, which, dammitall, belong to other people, but I am ever so grateful to those people for inventing these people.._

A sunny day on Starfleet Academy's campus, and McCoy invites Chapel out for a picnic lunch. They've both needed to get out of the SFA Emergency Room for a week now; they've had tough and sometimes gruesome work unending, and _finally_, it's 1500, their shift is at last over, and McCoy proposes a picnic outdoors for a change. Usually they eat quickly in the Infirmary Mess, or go to the Officer's Dining Room after changing clothes, but McCoy can't stand another lunch at the Academy. Besides – it's a hell of a nice day out.

"I even brought a blanket," he says to her outside their respective locker rooms. "All we need to do is get some sandwiches and a beverage of our choice."

"Since I'm done for the day, and you are, too, why don't we get the _hell_ out of the city and go up the coast?" Her voice is so soft and lady-like, it's funny to hear her cuss. Chapel takes off her scrubs cap and, released, her red hair waves loosely on her forehead and against her cheeks. It's still pinned up in the back. The red of her hair brings out the pale beauty of her skin, and her deep blue scrubs, the indigo of her eyes. "In fact, I'm off tomorrow, are you?"

McCoy nods, and she adds: "Then why don't we make an overnight out of it? Take a drive up the coast, stop for dinner, and find some lodgings, not necessarily in that order?"

McCoy's eyes linger on her face and neck for a moment, then he smiles slowly and says, "Yeah. Let's."

"Great. I'll meet you at my car in about 25 minutes."

Her car is a restored ancient convertible of the smaller European variety, painted icy blue with an ivory "rag top".

As they approach the Golden Gate bridge, McCoy watches her confident profile, her tiny mysterious smile, and her competent enjoyment of driving a "manual", or "stick shift", as she calls it. McCoy can't fathom why she likes to drive this old thing, but it's not bad, sitting and watching her, with her red hair escaping from her scarf, and the cool wind mussing his own hair. He remembers the first time he ever sat in this car with her.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

This is how they began their first date: "It's my 'chick car'," she grinned, using the old colloquial term, as they stood beside it. "I've had fun driving it ever since I was a teenager in semi-rural Northern Virginia. I used to love to drive the back roads in Fall, just to see the leaves changing color," she told him. "What'd you do for fun in your old home place?"

"Depends which one," he said. "My mom's folks had a horse farm, SummerBreeze, so I learned to ride Thoroughbreds. This farm, though, they didn't raise horses to run on the racecourses – the farm re-trained those ones too young to retire, but too old to race anymore. So I'd go out with the trainers and ride the horses, jump fences, that sort of thing. Lotta fun growing up. And my dad's daddy, we called him PaPaw, had a beautiful old place outside Savannah. That's the one where Joanna lives with her momma. We'd fool around climbing the old oaks at PaPaw's, or go out to Tybee Island to swim and play on the beach, or climb the spiral stairs in the old lighthouse."

He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground, trying not to feel regret for the loss of his daughter in his everyday life, sad that he can't share these good times with her regularly, that he can't hear her squealing with delight or lift her up in his arms.

"Is your PaPaw still living?"

"Naw. Died about eight years ago. Didn't get to meet Joanna. But, on the bright side, he never met Joycelyn either." McCoy looked up at Chapel then. Her large blue eyes were thoroughly focused on him, and it was very nice to be looked at that way, after the last years of hateful glares from Joy.

"Here's the thing. I gave Joy just about everything, so that I could be shut of her, and so Joanna could grow up like I did, free to run around on the property, and climb the trees, and imagine things. And I entailed that property so Joanna will get it, not her mother, if somethin' happens to me. Which it could, out there." He gestured upwards to the stars with a glance. "So I just want you to know, I don't have a lotta money or anything, just a deep admiration for you, and the enjoyment of our acquaintance, and ..."

And there, she had cut off his flow of words with a very nice, warm, long kiss. When they finished, and their arms were still around each other, she put one of her warm, capable hands on his cheek, gazed into his eyes, and softly said, "I have enough money for us to enjoy ourselves together, Len, for heaven's sake!" She pointed to the passenger seat. "Now get in and mind your manners."

He smiled, so thoroughly it reached his eyes, and he felt quite warm inside as he watched her walk around the car. "My grandma used to say that. And 'for the land's sakes'. You're kinda quaint, aren't ya, missy."

"Quaint, quite pretty, and competent," she smiled back, her face radiant. "And don't you forget it."

"How can I, after you've saved my ass so many times?" As soon as she was in the driver's seat he slid his left hand round the back of her neck and leaned over to kiss her cheek, letting his lips linger on her soft skin. He whispered into her ear, "You're not just 'quite pretty'. You're so beautiful, it makes my heart leap just to see you. Even when you're all sweaty from working in the ER for hours."

"I never sweat," she retorted playfully, starting the car. "You know, '_horses _sweat, men perspire, and ladies _glow_'."

McCoy cracked up. "My grandma used to say that, too!"

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

She stops the car before they get to the bridge, pulling into a drive that leads to an overlook. The breeze is up, quite cool and brisk. "I've never brought you here before, have I?"

McCoy shakes his head, looking over the rocks to the deep gray-blue water of the Golden Gate, as the passage into San Francisco Bay is called. The bridge, the orange color of deep sunset, looms overhead, and he can hear noises of cars and aircars passing over it. It casts a dark shadow over the water.

"This is Fort Point. My five-times-great-grandmother was stationed here, in the old U.S. Coast Guard, in the early 1980s."

"Is there a long tradition of military folks in your family?"

"Yes," she says in her precise way, "Chapels in one form or another have been part of the rescue and humanitarian services for centuries. My ancestor, Marianne Chapel, and her crewmates had to go out in boats to pull up the bodies of the suicides. If they weren't able to retrieve the bodies within a couple of days … they had to pull them up in a rescue basket, a Stokes litter, and flesh would fall off through the grid. Thank God, people can't jump from this bridge anymore since it was cordoned off." In the old days, she does not say, after many deaths, visible physical barriers were eventually added; now, there are invisible repelling devices in place, to keep pedestrians where they belong, inside the rails of the bridge.

McCoy shudders. "Jesus, I can't imagine jumping from something that high. As crappy as my life has been sometimes, I can't imagine wanting to die – especially like that."

"I read a journal she kept back then. It was terribly depressing work. But sometimes people – sailors and the like – got into trouble out on the water and it was very rewarding to help them, to save them. She was grateful for those times."

"Sounds a lot like us."

"Remember, two weeks ago …"

"Hell, CC, there's no way I could forget it." He and Chapel had worked for hours, along with other members of the medical team, and still lost a patient, a fourth/class cadet, TLIop'q'r, a delicately formed being from Cygni II who omitted, whether accidentally or on purpose, to take prescribed, kelebendum supplements. S/he died on the table, poor kid. Afterward, Len and Christine found a quiet alcove and shared a bereft hug, supporting each other. Christine wept; Len did his very best not to.

Next day, examining the cadet's record and researching medical data about the Cygnians, McCoy concluded that TLIop'q'r was experiencing a deep depression because of the lack of kelebendum (a mineral native to Cygni II) _and_ magnesium in his/her system. Although the dispensary had prescribed kelebendum when the cadet reported to the Academy, they had not realized the cadet's need for magnesium. The deficiency of magnesium led to an imbalance in TLIop'q'r's brain chemistry; then the cadet stopped taking kelebendum, and a distinct gender identity asserted itself, which was atypical in the cadet's race.

This was completely unsettling to TLIop'q'r's psyche and physiology, so much so that TLIop'q'r had stopped eating and drinking, with further bodily stresses resulting, and this tragedy had resulted. This being the first Cygnian cadet Starfleet had schooled, and _lost_, through lack of knowledge and easy preventive steps, McCoy made notes on the autopsy report that it should never happen again, with the availability of such "shit-simple solutions," and Dr. Puri tolerantly advised different wording.

"But we've saved people, Len, a lot of people." Christine puts her hand on his knee, turning so she can touch his face with her other hand. "We can't … condemn ourselves when we lose someone."

"Oh, we _can't_? Who the hell says so?" McCoy's right eyebrow climbs and his eyes grow large in that expression his family members call "disputatious" and he says, "I condemn myself plenty for missing a stupid little detail like the minerals TLIop'q'r needed to survive. I condemn the medical _staff _for it."

"And what good does that do? You've now analyzed the situation, come to a conclusion and made a report to prevent its happening again, and Medical knows what to do for Cygnians from now on."

"Oh, _sure_, if Cygnus II ever allows anyone to attend Starfleet Academy again."

"Leonard! If _anybody_ should have caught it, it should have been a doctor with a specialty in Exobiology, in which you're _not yet an expert_." Her voice is soft as she says these things; her precise pronunciation gives her words weight.

"Well I damn well better _become_ an expert, don't ya think, if I'm gonna fly around in a starship?"

"That's what you're learning in your residency at the Academy! My God, would you _listen_ to yourself?" She is nearly glaring at him now, and her voice is a bit louder. "You need _time_ and _practice_ to absorb all this new knowledge. You're acing Pathology and Forensics, and you expect to immediately become an expert in Exophysiology? This is only your first year here as a Resident, for heaven's sake!"

He glares back and says, "God damn it, I hate losing a patient, and I hate treating ali—_non-humans_ when I'm not prepared with knowledge! How the fuck long is it gonna take me?"

"As long as it takes - probably another two years, until you finish your SFA term of residency! This cadet's death was _not_ your sole responsibility! There are many other people who should have caught this before that kid ever ended up in the ER. It's our job to treat the patients who come to us as best we can, and to _keep on_."

He breaks his gaze and turns his head to look up at the bridge. The waves are washing up at the point, splashing loudly, and the air is as cold as his self-assessment. Chapel was talking about professionally practicing distance. Lovingkindness, as Leslie Pemasdottir, "the Buddhist doc" at UMC Berkeley, would say. Enough loving distance to do others some good.

After thinking for a while, he says, "Aw, Christine. Why the hell are you right all the time?"

"I'm a nurse. I have a lot more experience in hospital and emergency care, that's all. Sure, I have a degree in Exobiology, but in research. It didn't come with the operational medical experience you're getting." Her eyes are serious, wide, very blue, and a bit teary. "I got worried when I heard you went on such a … _binge_ that night. Why didn't you come over, instead?"

McCoy sighs explosively. "I dunno, I just went out with Dr. Cilowicz, our 43-year-old resident, to get a couple of drinks, and it turned into fifteen or twenty. We commiserated about our shitty lives-in-the-past, and jawed about what we hoped to do, and pretty soon all we hoped to do was get really drunk. He sings, didja know that? Really sad Polish songs."

"He is a very sad man," Christine acknowledges. "Did he tell you his whole family died when the outpost where they lived was attacked by D'veni pirates?"

"Yeah. He was a diplomat before he began medical school. He was away on a mission. 'S'the only thing that saved his life." Sighing, Len pulls a face. "Aw, damn it, _why_ are we talkin' about this?"

"Because, Len, I want you to know that I care very much about you, and I hate to see you drowning your sorrows in a whisky glass."

"I don't wanna argue about this, and I don't wanna have to justify myself to you," he says, his dander up. "I like to enjoy some whisky occasionally!"

"I don't want to argue about it either," she returns gently. "I just want to point out that I don't think you really enjoyed it that night."

"Well … maybe you're right. I don't …" he thrusts his head back on the headrest impatiently, trying to think of how to express himself here, and comes up with, "I'm just too much of a … curmudgeon to come over and cry on your shoulder when I'm hurting. Nothing personal."

She raises her eyebrows. "Apparently."

"No, no, I mean, I'm too … 'prideful', that's what Grandma used to say to me."

"Does it serve you to be so prideful, Leonard?" Her voice is soft.

"No … I suppose it doesn't." He puts his hands up to her jawline, strokes her lower lip with a thumb, and kisses her gently. He sighs again, knowing he's been foolish. "Thanks for callin' me on it, hon. Guess I'd rather enjoy my whisky at other times."

Before she puts the car in gear, she gives him a playful look and says, "Your knees are up around your ears. Why don't you slide the seat back a little?"

He fumbles on the floor between his ankles, finds the lever, but can't seem to pull it the right way. He gives her a "flustrated" look, and she grins and slides her hand down his leg to his ankle, grasping the lever under the seat, and releasing it so he slides back with a _whump_! She slides her hand up inside his thigh and flutters her eyelashes at him; he rolls his eyes. At least his knees are no longer bent at an acute angle. And her touch has turned him on. She gooses the accelerator, taking off for the tunnel of rainbows.

It goes through a hill, one of the Marin headlands, and there are rainbow colors striped around the openings of both tunnels, the one leaving San Fran and the one coming from Marin. Soon they're out of the dimness, back into the sun, and the breeze is a bit warmer.

"Where're we headed?" He asks a while later, watching the shallow waters of Tomales Bay and the rolling hills on the other side of it passing by on their left. He drinks in the wonderful scent of eucalyptus trees freshening the air, sees llamas and sheep behind the fences to the right. The sun glimmers on leaves and from ripples in the water.

"I made reservations at the Inn at the Tides. First I thought we'd drive up to Bodega Head. There's a little grocery where we can get a picnic, and we can sit and watch the waves."

After they stop in Bodega Bay for some local cheese, wine, Sourdough bread, Prosciutto, and grapes, she aims the little car up the road and turns left to the winding lane that curves and climbs around the side of the bay, then through the hills that to the Head. The breeze picks up, and McCoy folds his arms. _Stupid not to bring a sweater_, he grouses inwardly, but enjoys the sight of the golden hills, like sleeping bears, and the taste of the now salty air.

She halts the car in a parking area and gets out, lightly shutting the door; as McCoy climbs out, his door gets away from him in the wind and closes with a loud slam. "Shit," he mutters. The wind is really whipping now, buffeting his ears and intermittently laying flat the dark blond grasses of the bluffs.

"Don't worry, car doors are made for slamming. It's a great way to relieve stress." Christine pulls a wool sweater on over her tailored blouse and snug denim skirt; it's russet with, what else, flecks of deep blue, ivory and brown. Quickly braiding her hair in the back, she pins it up, dons an indigo beret, and tucks her blue scarf into the neckline of her sweater. This woman knows how to accentuate her looks, Len thinks. Not that she needs to, with looks like that. His attention is riveted on her almost all the time, when they're not working.

And when they work, they're like a symphony orchestra playing one of those old composers, Bach, is it? Intricately masterful, with musical lines running this way and that, melding perfectly - Uhura's dragged him to some concerts and shared program notes with him, but he can't remember all those names or musical terms - his head is crammed full with medical knowledge and all the new stuff from all the exobiology and

alien organic chemistry and interspecies medicine he's learned in the last year.

Christine tosses him something. "Happy weekend, Len." It's a brown marled wool turtleneck sweater with green and light brown yarns woven in and a cable down the front. Perfect for this gusty wind.

"Thanks!" he says. "You think of everything, don't ya."

"Part of my job, keeping you doctors on track, and knitting sweaters for you," she smirks as he puts it on.

He pops his head through the neck and says in wonder, "You _made_ this? It fits to a tee. "

"I did. I don't rely on clothing processors for everything. There's nothing as soothing as knitting things for friends, and seeing how nice they look, and how warm they keep you. And about how it fits you? I'll return that scrub shirt I borrowed from you." A playful grin. "There is _nothing_ like a hand-knit sweater."

He moves his hands down the soft, thick sweater and nods appreciatively. "You're right about that. Thanks a lot, Christine."

She gets the basket out of the back seat, Len grabs the blanket, and they make their way slowly to a cliff overlooking the crashing waves. She sensibly anchors the blanket under the basket and at the corners with a few large stones brought along for the purpose.

"This's a sight you damn sure don't see in Georgia." Standing with his arm around Christine, Len shades his eyes. Tall, white-capped waves crash into the rocks with a repeated _thoom!_ in deep bass voices. Under their white caps, the waves are like the edge of clear glass, a light-filled green, quickly curving over and rolling into mint-white foam that collides with the cliffs, over and over. "The waves on Tybee Island roll gently up the beach, and kids love to run and let the waves chase them and get their feet and legs all wet." He smiles with a memory, but it makes him sad at the same time.

She's perceptive. "How long has it been since you've seen Joanna?"

"A few months. It was always hell to wrangle her away from Joy, even for a day. We finally got to a compromise, or I should say, our respective lawyers did. Joanna goes to stay with my momma and daddy, and I visit her at SummerBreeze, or they bring her out to Tybee. That way Joy and I don't have to see or talk to each other, and it's a lot easier on my baby girl."

"She's how old, now? Close to seven?"

"'Bout seven and a half. But she'll always be my baby girl."

Christine hugs him outright, then, her generous bosom pressing warmly into his chest, her lips meeting his, her eyes gazing into his, and her hands descend to curve around his ass, pressing their hips together. One of his hands clasps her upper back, the other, the outward curve below her waist, and they stand together, kissing each other's mouths and faces, for a long time.

Later, they hunker down on their picnic blanket, having moved it beside a rock, hoping for a wind-break, but it doesn't quite work. Nibbling cheese and sipping wine, they feel the chill increasing with the sun's descent toward the horizon. The fog is rolling in, making the orange sun into a mere bright, pastel peach spot.

"Why don't we go finish our picnic at the inn," Christine suggests, "And maybe go out for a really late dinner."

"Well, since you have a stasis unit in that basket, why don't we eat dinner first, and …" he wiggles his eyebrows, which always brings forth her happy face, "… we can _snack_ later."

They head inland and back down the coast a short way for a casual place that's been by the coast road for centuries now, an Italian family-run joint with red and white checkered cloths on the tables, topped with chianti bottles, candles stuck in the necks. There are silly plaques on the walls, and ancient pictures.

McCoy sees fresh-made ravioli and other pastas being served, and he and Christine are enjoying the best minestrone soup either of them has ever eaten. The bread is great too, that sourdough loaf that's locally made and is so delicious. Christine slathers on the butter and so does Len; neither of them suffers from a weight problem, rushing around every shift in the ER, and regularly keeping up with Starfleet fitness standards by running and doing yoga.

Besides sex, running and yoga are the only two physical activities that calm Len down and quiet his mind. Christine enjoys yoga because it keeps her limber. He can't help but think of just how limber she is, and brings his mind back to what she's saying.

"I hear the bread is so good here because the climate is perfect for it." She's dipping a chunk of bread in her soup. "Mmmm."

He grins, fixing his gaze on her luscious lips. "Mmmm, indeed. I have plans for you, young lady."

She crinkles the inner corners of her eyes in that way he adores, extends a finger and taps his nose. "Patience, Doctor. We need to sign into our room, light a fire …"

He shakes his head at her as their pasta dishes arrive. "Metaphors, metaphors."

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

The room is really nice, wood trim everywhere and wooden slat blinds, and surrounding the windows and indeed the building is a field of grass; the wind is still whipping through and the temperature's dropped another few degrees Celsius, but Christine suggests they go to the outdoor hot tub.

He turns to her from where he's laying the fire, and says, "Are you outta your mind? It must be about seven degrees out there."

"I am not kidding." She has donned a swimsuit while in the bathroom, and is now snuggling into a thick, long, absorbent robe, and slipping her feet into clogs. "Your stuff is in there. I double-dog dare ya'!"

"Well, I'm never one to shrink from a double-dog dare," he says. Ruefully, he looks down. "Although I may shrink from some other things."

In their shoes, robes and swimsuits, they race downhill to the hot tub, strip down to their bathing attire, and clamber in, _aahhh_-ing in unison. Sitting in the warm, flowing, bubbling heat, Len hears … clanking and … lowing? He can't see a damn thing, because the hot water makes for one hell of a steam cloud in the cold air. "What the hell …? There are _cows_ around here?"

Christine grins. "You saw the llama farms and the sheep farms on the way up. Yes, country boy, those are cows."

After a while, they realize they're all alone. No one is walking around anywhere out here. (Except those cows, _plonk_ing their bells with every step, beyond a fence, in the field.) They look around to double check, their eyes meeting in a conspiratorial glance, and begin embracing, kissing each other and slipping their hands here and there under their swimwear, always with an eye out for "intruders".

After some minutes of this, he says, "Ready to race up the hill?"

She half-closes her eyes in anticipation of their goal. "I am if you are."

"Out of the hot tub and into our robes, to our little room we run," he croaks in a not at all tuneful voice as they dash through the chilly fog. (It's not that he can't sing, no, no; he's so chilly his teeth are chattering. Yeah, that's it.)

Well, it's not a _little_ room; it's a suite, really, with a large, very comfortable-looking bed, a seating area and a damn nice bathroom, and they can't decide whether to shower first or after, so they strip off all their wet stuff and he kneels to light the fire. She pats his naked butt and heads for the closet, getting a blanket and laying it down before the fire. "Now we can be nice and warm." Kneeling next to him, she strokes up and down his back as he closes the fire screen, and he turns to her; the firelight makes their skin warm and golden.

He leans his face down slightly to kiss her; she's tall, and this is very convenient, he thinks, for kissing and hugging and dancing closely together; he wants to take her out dancing again soon. She's as good at it as he is; both suffered through "cotillion" lessons as teenagers and had to attend debutante balls, she, to "come out" and he, to escort his young female relatives and neighbors when they did. Southern traditions died hard.

Now he surrenders to the silk of her skin, her breasts against him, her soft lips pressing his neck and chin and cheeks and mouth, hands caressing his hair and down his back, and he loses his breath to gasp and drink in the scent of her hair and skin. He's not sure what perfume she uses, it's woody, vanilla, amber, some wonderful combination of those. Whatever it is, it's seductive, and he's completely under the spell she casts with scent and strokes, loving glances and gliding kisses.

He touches his lips to her hair, enjoying its rich colors in the firelight, and its satiny feel. His hands cup her shoulders, and slip down her arms, and back up within her arms from her hips to the curve of her waist. Sliding her hands around him to his chest, she sits back on her heels, and he takes a long look at her beautifully sculpted face, throat and luscious breasts, with their rosy nipples, standing out with her arousal. He slips his hands up to cover them, and his mouth descends to hers, and he lays her down to worship her with his body.

Her eyes close as she concentrates on the sensations he's bringing on; lying on his side next to her, he pillows his head on her left breast as he kisses and tongues the right. He feels her other nipple under his sideburn, and moves his mouth over to soothe it while he gently massages the right one.

Her fingers are busy stroking his penis, now at full attention, and drawing a ticklish line down between his balls, now cradling them in her warm palm and lofting them slightly, quite a thrilling sensation that makes him draw breath and nip at the point of her breast. She arches her back, moaning with desire, and after he takes a while kissing her mouth and throat, he descends, kissing her breasts and licking down the midline of her abdomen to her coppery pubic hair. His fingers slip over and between her folds to penetrate her center; then he's stroking her deliciousness with his lips and tongue, eliciting sighs and cries. His mouth achieves its goal - she is spasming beneath his lips - he glances up to see tears streaking down her cheeks as she shudders and moans with joy. He rises on his hands and knees, moving to kiss her soft cheeks and taste her tears, and she kisses his mouth to taste herself.

She lays him down then and gives him a thorough kissing. She is so skilled at this, he thinks, and she slicks her mouth over his nipples, circling and firming them up with the tip of her tongue (now it's his turn to arch his back), and kisses him lower and lower on the torso until – "OhGOD," he says aloud as she slips her mouth around him. He's already so full and tense, he worries for a couple of minutes that he might–. She lies down next to him then, and encourages him to lie atop her, bringing him to center by circling her legs around his hips. He unerringly glides into her, shivering now himself with the delight of feeling her hottest slickest wetness surrounding him. He lies still for a moment; she's pulsing her vaginal muscles around him and it is deeply, deeply pleasing.

They're moving together; he glides in and out, slow gentleness gradually succeeded by near-frantic giving and receiving. and as he begins thrusting hard, swelling, she feels tighter around him, his balls are slapping moistly below; her breasts, bouncing with his urgent thrusting, are wet with his perspiration and her own and again, beautiful sounds are coming out of her mouth, interspersed with his own muttered growls of near-release, and suddenly their mutual wave is cresting and they're carried along on a deep and joyous cry.

As his elbows collapse and his face nears hers, he sees her through a mist – this never happened with Joycelyn – and as she opens her luminous, teary eyes, he starts to say something and chokes up. She nods and strokes his face gently, cupping his cheek.

"I know," she whispers. "I love you, Len."

Later, he pulls the blanket around them so they can rest in each other's arms for a while. Her voice is dreamy as she says, "I adore those surgeon's hands of yours."

"And how about my other surgeon parts?" he teases drowsily, his eyelids slipping down despite his desire to stay awake for her.

"I find them _all_ delightful, Len."

"I find all your parts pretty nice myself."

"Thank you, sweetheart."

He feels her lips brush his cheeks and gently kiss his mouth and gradually slips into a doze.

He hears her say, "C'mon, sleepyhead, let's get into bed, you darling."

And they do, to sleep and nestle through the night.

~/\~ ~/\~ ~/\~

Len's not sure if Christine's awake yet. He wants to go wine-tasting today; their inn is near some fantastic wineries. They can bring the cheese and stuff from yesterday, and get happily tipsy together.

Her eyes are closed, but her breathing doesn't look as deep as if she is sleeping. He's lying on his side, up on one elbow, studying her face in repose, admiring this God's work of art. A painting by Titian, maybe. Body by Juno. He grins, thinking, _and here I am. I'm one happy son of a horsewoman. _

She blinks awake, eyes crinkling with her smile. "What are you staring at?"

"Only the loveliest lady on this earth," he says. "God damn it, why didn't we get married when we first met?"

"We must not have been 'meant to be' in those days."

"Now that is just pure-dee nonsense," he frowns. "What, you mean I was predestined to marry Joy, the most ironically nicknamed woman on Earth? You believe that silly kinda crap?"

"No, sweetie," she laughs, and hugs him to her. "I was just funning you."

He relaxes in her arms, saying, "Sorry I got snippy, then. I guess … if I _hadn't_ married _her_, I wouldn't have Joanna in my life."

"That sounds kind of like … destiny, doesn't it?"

"Stop smirking at me, dammit. I was just talking genetics." He kisses her mouth so she quits it, and now she sports a genuine smile.

"You know, Len, for a curmudgeon, you can be pretty cuddly."

He grins and says, "Well thanks, sugar. I guess."

_**The End, but not forever.**_

A/N: Christina Hendricks loves to knit in real life! And Karl Urban, well … he loves the outdoors, and learned to ride _very_ well for _Lord of the Rings_. So I gave McCoy a "horsey" background.


End file.
